Wednesday, November 26, 2008

[Chapter 3] Muse.

Regret, albeit an undesirable manifestation of one’s darkest hour, is an inherent state of despondency that we perpetually tempt through misguided judgment. By no fault but of our own do we continually seek to fulfill the immediate self-gratifications resulting from our repeatedly mistaken decisions, only to leave but a bitter taste of penitence in our mouths.


There she stood, her beauty emanating from every pore on the surface of her delicate body.

Sarah, who in spirit of the Halloween gaieties, had opened the door upon my arrival with an air of embellishment. She was garmented from top to bottom in the night’s darkest clothing, leaving little to be imagined.

Her lustrous black stilettos reflected the light from the full Hallow’s moon as her voluptuous legs made way to a tattered frock that nestled the curvature of her body ever so perfectly. Her exquisite complexion was tainted only in the slightest by three perfectly beaded droplets of blood, which were resting serenely atop the apex of her chin.

As I stood upon the stoop of her home with an awestruck gaze, it suddenly dawned upon me that the doorway by which we were separated was effectively serving as a metaphor for our storybook affair.

“Hi Trey,” she said with an elegant smile, just as my agape jaw began to twinge.

The amiable tone of her voice shocked me, as I had expected her diction to match that of her assumed persona; a Vampiress she had become indeed.

As my internal monologue proceeded to bate the resilient feelings, she spoke only to end what I assume to have become an exceedingly uncomfortable silence.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me put the rest of my beer in your fridge and we’ll take off,” I said, shaking out of my latent state of mind.

Having become aware of my invitation to the forthcoming party only this afternoon, I had been given very little time to creatively prepare a costume; as my original plans for this evening merely consisted of drinking myself into a coma. Alone.

As I drove to the costume shop, feebly hoping that inventory still remained on the shelves, I was blessed with a rare moment of inspiration.

Clicking through the presets on my stereo, I momentarily settled upon a local indie station that was currently playing “You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday.

Having had the misfortune of discovering the band at a concert several years prior, I have ever since abhorred their name and the culture to which they contribute; the emo culture.

And so at that moment, I begrudgingly decided to transform myself into that of which has become the bane of my existence. All that I needed to successfully fashion the character was a long black wig, an assortment of makeup, and some gauze to cover the blatant scars riddled across both of my arms.

As Sarah and I began walking down the street toward the house of our destination, I started to realize to what degree my contempt for the college community had risen. With each intoxicated outcry emanating from the passing houses, my enthusiasm for the night’s events faded ever so slightly.

Stepping into what I suddenly realized to be a house of the fraternal community, I was immediately consumed by regret.

As I moved through the doorway and into the foyer I was approached by what appeared to be a gentleman dressed solely in a pink woman’s thong. I make mention to the fact that he appeared to be a man because, while my avidity to glance down was clearly nonexistent, I couldn’t help but to notice the banana in the hammock was in its very early stages of ripening.

“Hey bro, you can’t be here if you ain’t with nobody,” the mook intelligently snarled.

“It’s okay Lance, he’s with me,” Sarah gestured as we walked past him, making an extra effort not to make contact with his impressively well-developed love handles.

“I see you’ve made some… Good friends,” I said audaciously, just as she turned to burn a hole through my skull with her austere stare.

“I see you’ve learned to not judge everyone you meet,” she snapped. Her tone was dry and I could sense she was starting to second guess her decision to invite me. I decided to back off a bit and try to enjoy myself to the best of my ability.

“Here’s to a great night,” I said, looking at her with a half-assed grin on my face and a beer raised to eye-level.

Before she was able to decide if my previous statement was genuine, the beat to “Lollipop” by Lil’ Wayne kicked in and everyone in the closet-sized room began moving simultaneously.

Almost immediately, what appeared to be an oversized hairdryer walked up behind Sarah and put his hands on her hips to start dancing with her. Before I could take a step forward, she looked at me with a glare that said: “I’m fine, go dance.”

As I stood in the corner, true to my emo nature, and watched her dance with what I later found out to be a giant keg, I began to realize that the inebriation had started its onset.

Cue impaired judgment.

Cracking open another beer, I watched Mr. Kegman’s hands slowly make their way down Sarah’s slender waist, well past the ridge of her hips for the second time in the past 10 minutes.

This time however, she grabbed his hands, threw them askew and began to walk away. Just as he reached for her shoulder to pull her back, I found myself sprinting at him without the slightest amount of consideration.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight, at least not a notable one. At best, I remember punching my classmate in the stomach in the sixth grade for slamming my locker shut.

The adrenaline that pumps through your veins just before making contact with your aggressor is, well, orgasmic at the least. The room was at a standstill as I took a third person’s point of view, watching the events play out from above. It felt as if my enduring dream to live my life through a camera was happening right in front of my eyes.

Watching my fist make its way across the keg’s upper left jaw, the room spun back into motion as I dropped quickly back down into my body.

Mr. Kegman was lying on the floor in front of me while onlookers from all angles stood perplexedly.

Before I could interpret what had happened, I felt a firm pull on the back of my hoodie and realized that I was being dragged quickly out of the house; I assumed that payback was about to ensue.

As I turned around, half-expecting to see Lance in his barren state with his fist cocked back and ready to swing, my eyes were graciously surprised.

Sarah, having a surprisingly stronger upper body than I remembered, had pulled me out of the house just before I was able to learn the true meaning of getting one’s own ass handed to him.

Before I could apologize, in hope that Sarah wouldn’t give me a lesson in ass-handling herself, I felt her soft luscious lips embrace my own.

What happened next was far be it from what I had envisioned to be in tonight’s docket.


Lying naked on my back in Sarah’s uncomfortably small twin bed, her resting head nestled between my shoulder and chin, I couldn’t help but to stare at the ceiling and ponder how lonely I truly was.

Sex had begun to fall short of its gratifying reputation. Pleasureful value aside, the worth of one night encounters regardless of past feelings had all but vanished.

Unable to move my eyes from the slow spinning ceiling fan, my mind began to long for the one soul in this world that it knew it could find solace in. The one entity, the one human being, the one female that without a question I knew I could love and be loved without the inherent complications of sexual arousal.

She is my muse, and I will forever be in longing.

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith


  1. This is very good. I have a few thoughts that came up while reading. They are not meant as criticisms. Again, I think you are a great writer with a very good sense for capturing that lonely experience and making your reader very familiar with it.

    These are definitely the kinds of feelings a lot of people can relate to. I think there are a lot of men, in particular, who would identify with your character, although not to this extreme.

    I do feel kind of disturbed, because the character feels so lonely in an unjust world, and there is line after line of the intense pain and anger and it stays all balled up with no climatic release. Even in bed with Sarah, there is no let up of pressure. So it's an intensive piece to read.

    I don't know, as a reader, I feel somewhat alienated. I start identifying with your character, and I want him to look up and beyond the hypocritical world or face some kind of issues that contribute to why he is so ticked off. Instead, he buries himself in poisonous thought after another, and I start realizing he is walking so far into despair and emptiness that his observations of the world around him are distorted, paranoid, and maybe deluded. For me this is a very difficult lens to keep reading the story. It reminded me a lot of the narrator in Catcher in the Rye. I had such sympathy for him, but he was void of compassion, love, feeling, and anything positive. It was frustrating to read.

    I think this is very good, and your details and the mood are expressed very well since I had such a like / dislike connection with the story. I think the best writing evokes those feelings to some extent, and the reader is troubled yet fascinated by that feeling. I think the TV show House is like this. We like Dr. House and we are so repulsed by him at the same time. What does that say about us?

    Sorry for going on. Good work.

  2. So, T, what is it that you're looking for that you are so firmly convinced you will never find? Methinks you may be a "petrarchan lover" (a term I learned in hike school as we studied Shakespeare that I was sure I would never get to use in the "real world" - thank you for allowing me the opportunity to pull it out from my antiquated vocab and dust it off for you).

    Or, is it merely that your standards are so unjust that no human could ever fill this void you lug around?

    Perhaps a bit of both?

    Don't take yourself (or life) so seriously.

    But in the meantime, keep the pen (er, keyboard) a-flowin'. You're an enjoyable writer to read.

  3. "Sex had begun to fall short of its gratifying reputation"....

    It's interesting that one so young has already figured that one out. Sex, like heroin, is one of those things that you think you require more of, all the while, it gives back less and less.

    Without the love to go along with it.

    You remind me so much of my son. He has the same distaste for the Emo world, the same ability to overanalyze and negatively critique any situation. Alot of it comes from insecurity...I know this, because I do the same thing, even at my lofty perch up here at 40 yrs. :)

    Putting people up to such exacting and unmeetable standards is merely just a way of keeping everyone at arms (or farther) length.

    As usual, however, I'm anticipating whatever you've got to say next! It was worth the wait! Thanks for being so willing to open yourself up.

    @James: House is a classic representation of antisocial personality disorder. If you've not lived with someone of this nature, it may be hard to fathom how someone can be so far removed from the typical human emotions.

    From my side, I didn't feel alienated at all. Maybe because I'm just used to being around it alot more than the general population.

    Ok, babbled enough. Great insight and presence of mind. Thanks again!

  4. fact 1: i know you
    fact 2: you know me
    fact 3: i know who you are talking about
    fact 4: that's not cool
    fact 5,6,7,8,9,10,.......infinity: put the thesaurus away

  5. @The Verbal Warrior Thank you for the context and perspective. You're right, experience wise I am not familiar with this mindset too well, so I'm happy to hear how you see things.

    Trey, awesome man. You have people engaged and discussing your work on deeper levels than just at the plot level. I'm always amazed from something that starts in a cloudy corner of a writer's head and moves all the way to a source text that confronts and changes the minds and hearts of readers. Purely awesome dude.

  6. Wow. Hey Trey it looks like someone is afraid of identifying themselves for fear of being a target of scrutiny. To me that reflects an understanding of word usage on an unmeasurable level. Unmeasurable of course except by the fear that one shows by not wanting to be bombarded by them because they know they have no possible argument to make afterward. Well done

  7. Great work as always! You have a great talent and you definitely have a captured audience. You have put yourself out here in the blogosphere and have shown a vulnerable side that many people don't allow their friends to see (or in this case read) and you have done so through the internet. You are sharing your thoughts and feelings with people you know and in most cases, with people you don't. Anybody can read your blog, relate, criticize but regardless, you have made yourself available for people to read about your experiences, feelings and much more and that takes a lot. I give you a lot of credit because I don't have the courage to write (or type) my feelings out for the world to read, and you do. I commend you for that.

    @Anonymous: Having worked with writers and authors for a year and a half, they all have two things in common.
    1. They write what they know.
    2. They write about people and experiences they have had regardless of the type of genre. Writers and authors use characteristics from people they know.
    If you had read the description, it's a narrative of the bloggers life, about people he knows and experiences he has had. If it bothers you so much and you don't like what he has written, there is one simple solution - Don't read the blog. If you have something to say, be mature and put your name with your comments, or as I stated above, don't read the blog.

  8. Nice work Trey. I've reached the point where I just will not sleep with a woman unless I love her - it becomes nothing more than masturbation, only riskier. I was once a male whore who fell in love with every woman I slept with - my how I've changed...LOL!


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